There was a rattle of mucus as the first leech cleared his throat. Stiffly, he regarded the king. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he whispered. “You are a true king.”
“How very generous of you to say.” Nicephorus’s smile was both remote and resplendent. “And you, Your Scrupulousness? What do you say of my kingly virtue?”
Around the room he went, pointing to every leech in turn. When he reached the end of the twelve, Agnes thought he might be through, but this hope was as false as any she had ever had. Next the king pointedtoward the Most Esteemed Surgeon himself, who sat at the foot of the high table, flanked by his two favored leeches.
There was a brief spasm of surprise across his face as he stared down the end of the king’s knife. But submission came easily to this Surgeon, who was really only a leech with finer robes and a more tuneful voice.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said earnestly. “You are a true king. Truer than any who preceded you.”
But even this abject slavering did not fill him. Nicephorus pointed to the leech at his left, a short and rather dumpy man with strawlike hair that peeked out from under his hood. “And you, Truss?” He then angled his knife to the other, a taller man with a narrow triangular face, like a marten. “Mordaunt? Do you believe me a true king?”
The two leeches answered in unison, mouths opening and closing like trout on twin hooks: “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“I am mightily blessed to have such faithful subjects.” Nicephorus’s gaze shifted. “And you, Prince Liuprand? A father always holds in high regard the opinion of his son.”
From beneath lidded eyes, Liuprand looked at his father. The loathing in his stare was hard to fathom. Not for its intensity, but for its dimension. It shone like a diamond, the light refracting through so many angles and sides, each showing another facet. It was captivating and kaleidoscopic. A refined and almost beautiful hate; precious, rare.
Yet running beneath was the gleam of Liuprand’s innate and unperturbable wisdom. No good could arise from challenging his father now, before this audience of men. He knew it, and still the words came wrenched out of his throat, steeped so deeply in that exquisite vintage of disgust.
“Yes, Father,” he said softly. “You are a true king.”
It was then that Agnes understood, though a part of her had known it since she had first seen the wound. The bruise on Liuprand’s face was in the shape of the king’s hand. And with this knowledge, a frightening emotion rose up in her. It heated the blood in her veins, like molten steel poured through a mold. She was afraid of the hideous,powerful blade it might fashion. A cruel sword, like Berengar’s, soldered of insolent rage.
But she remained still and without words. The metamorphosis occurred inside her, invisible to the eye. If anyone were prevailed upon to look, they would only see what they always had: the silent Lady Agnes, more akin to the dead than to the living.
The king’s lips formed a tremulous smile, like two wriggling worms. “I see at last you have learned some deference, Liuprand. Prince you may be, but it is the duty of all sons to obey their fathers. Even if we were two stinking peasants, still you would bow to me.”
Hate gleamed from Liuprand like the winking white light from a shower of stars, but he did not speak. Cold silence ruled the great hall again with as much preeminence as the king himself.
Nicephorus’s voice deposed it. “And you, Princess—what is your judgment of my kingly virtue?”
Marozia inhaled. Her breath shuddered and her chin quivered, but she was perfectly decorous in her reply. “You are a true king, Your Majesty,” she said. “I would not ever think to question such a thing.”
The capitulation in her tone was unimpeachable. Marozia, whose voice was as impeccably tuned as her harp. Still, the king had not eaten his fill. He turned to Agnes, and their faces were so close that she could feel the gust of his sour breath as he spoke.
“You, Lady Agnes, last of all,” he said. “I would be happy to receive your judgment. Am I a true king?”
Her heart beat in that strangled-rabbit way. With as much vigor as she could manage, she nodded.
“What was that, lady? Speak.”
This silence was the most callous ruler yet. More bitter, even, than the king. As cruel as the stones of the castle itself.
“I speak for all the House of Teeth in this matter,” Marozia said, hurriedly, before this horrible regime could grow more entrenched. “You are a true king, Your Majesty; my cousin would not ever think to question your virtue, either.”
“Enough from you,” Nicephorus said. He waved his knife vaguelyin her direction, and Marozia closed her mouth at once. “I am asking the lady Agnes. I would like to hear her speak it, in her own voice.”
His gaze rested upon her. It was not a hateful gaze; it was not even angry, particularly. Where the blazing emotion had been, there was now only icy assurance. He was certain that he could make her speak. He did not even need to shout or snarl. He already felt half victorious.
Agnes stared back at him, her tongue lying limp in her mouth.
Seconds passed, as droplets from a tincture. The king blinked, and a bit of impatience leaked into his voice. “Well? Speak, Lady Agnes. Speak.”
She did not.
“What is wrong with you, girl?” he spat at last. “I am yourking.”
His spittle sprayed onto her face. She did not even try to wipe it away.
